


Wild Heart

by justmariamay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Biblical References, Big Brother Michael, Developing Relationship, Duty, Fate & Destiny, Gen, How Do I Tag, Internal Conflict, Michael Needs a Hug, Protectiveness, Sacrifice, Season/Series 08, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-03
Updated: 2018-03-23
Packaged: 2018-05-11 10:53:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 8
Words: 12,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5624413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/justmariamay/pseuds/justmariamay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Michael escapes Hell but Hell follows. Slowly getting his memory and strength back he has to make many difficult decisions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Omano](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Omano/gifts).



Another year has passed. Many things happen but nothing that directly concerns the Pale Horseman. Angels at war… big brothers gone and they just blow a fuse. Then there was Leviathans’ return that wasn’t such a tragedy to begin with. He helped to cancel the Apocalypse. He isn’t even sure why he did it. Probably because he wanted to make Him come and see what His irresponsibility has brought on the world, to make Him interfere. And predictably enough He didn’t care.

Suddenly the flow of his thoughts is broken.

"Excuse me," a reaper who disturbed his morning bows apologetically. “We have an incident.”

"What is it, Niall?" he asks. He can see that this incident is serious. They long learned to leave the most stubborn souls alone to their torment, so it has to be something else.

"I'm not even sure... I think you should see for yourself, father," Niall has always been smart and never so unsure about anything.

“Lead the way then,” Death decides with suspiciously heavy heart.

Niall accompanies him to Varna and not to the nicest part of the city.

“Here,” he shows the direction.

The dirty alley stinks with many disgusting things, but above all sulfur. Two dead bodies already ripped. Another body with yet beating heart and… two more souls? A woman pressed herself into a cold brick wall and she is cradling to her chest…. no, not a child or material possession, but a soul. Weary and old soul…

Death approaches the woman and measures her carefully. Something is off, but at the first and even second sight it’s just a human. She doesn’t look at him, but it’s obvious that she’s aware of his presence. Her red from fresh blood lips move without making any sound. She shouldn’t be alive judging by the ugly gash on her neck or deep wound on her abdomen.

Death reaches out his hand and she protectively tightens her hold.

“It’s not yours,” he says.

She snaps her head up and her stare is dark and hollow.

“…Must protect… didn’t deserve… I promised…” she mumbles weakly. Her accent is grotesquely mixed, her voice has many under and overtones.

Death makes another step forward and looks even closer. Ah… now he recognizes both, the soul he could once save from diabolical cage and the ‘woman’. Every time they meet she has her feathers soaked in her own blood. But she doesn’t recognize him in return or so it seems.

“Give him to me, you can’t take care of him in such state,” he reasons.

She bites her lip drawing more blood and shakes her head furiously making hair fall on her face.

“Don’t you trust me, child?” he asks reproachfully. Maybe her memory is damaged, but there is more between them than just memories. It isn’t fair of him, but what else can he do? He can just go away or snatch this soul from her hands, and both won’t be wise of him.

Worn-out angel squeezes her eyes shut and finally surrenders the jaded soul of her previous vessel.

“Niall,” Death calls and passes Adam Milligan to young reaper. “Go take care of him.”

Niall bows respectfully and disappears. Death sighs tiredly and wonders aloud:

“What do I do with you, child?” the temptation to leave Michael be is strong, but imagining how much more trouble it can become he decides against it.

He takes her limp hands in his and their coldness really shouldn’t surprise him. For once these hands really feel fragile. They are so dirty, burnt, blood and flesh stuck under broken nails. Death can barely remember the last time he saw her in such miserable state.

“It’s not astonishing that you got yourself out, but I find the fact that you also saved Adam is admirable,” demons followed that poor soul even here. It was a very long chase. “Let’s go,” he tugs Michael after him and she obediently follows but without enthusiasm.

Pale grey Cadillac waits on the side of the road.

“Get in,” commands the owner.

But Michael stops and carefully puts her hand on the shiny surface. Gentle and happy smile appears on her face as her hand starts moving in caressing fashion. Car responds with soft grumbling of engine. Well, of course…

“She’s glad to see you too. Now get inside,” he repeats taking his seat. “Buckle up.”

Michael clumsily does as told. Death notices that this vessel is barely holding itself together, it’s breaking under terrible weight of big wings, cracks from the inside because of terrible heat. And this woman was dying when she consented to host Michael, having nothing to lose. This body won’t last long, few weeks maybe.  

“Do you remember the way home, child?”

“Home…” she echoes perplexedly, her eyes glued to her grazed knees.

“Do you know where you are? Who you are? Who am I?” to each question he received mute negative answer. “What do you know then?” he asks.

“Nothing,” she shrugs and Death wonders why he has expected anything else. “But I think that I love you. And there is something wrong with me.”

“You know nothing about love, child. Nothing at all,” he replies gripping the wheel tighter as his mare gathers speed.

“But there is something wrong with me, isn’t it?” she stares out the window, no doubt catching every detail of quickly changing scenery. They are on another continent already.

“You could say that,” Death agrees, though more precise answer would be ‘everything’.

“Where are we going?” she asks curiously.

If only he knew. It doesn’t really matter.

“Why? Are you pressed on time?”

Michael bites her thumb thoughtfully. Then she nods and the last thing Death hears from her before she unbuckles and opens the car door at full speed and just throws herself out is “thank you”. When Horseman manages to stop he is many hundreds miles ahead. He tiredly lies back on the seat and pinches the bridge of his nose. Patting the panel he says soothingly:

“Of course she’s fine. When isn’t she?”

Stupid child. Hopelessly so. Whatever. He doesn’t care. More so, that knowing Michael they’ll meet again soon enough. That bitch destiny brings them together far too often.


	2. Chapter 2

It’s been over a year after his fiasco. Still, he is the one walking the Earth while Castiel and elder Winchester are stuck in Purgatory. Such an irony. The one who got the bone into his throat was indeed Dick Roman, but at that moment there was a dozen of CEOs in the building, and that particular one was a very capable double of his. In many ways Eric was his twin. Pity, really. Dick is missing him sometimes. But all in all their loss wasn’t too significant. They were made to survive. And this is something their creator had to regret when their will overcame their doom.

The survival required limiting their appetites, but it’s better than starving. It’s rather simple, laying low isn’t the worst idea ever. He doesn’t have to be on top of the world to rule it. He didn’t even bother to change his form and name. Of course Dick Roman gave up his candidature for a president post, but for a good reason. He and his corporation became a victim to terroristic and hacker attacks. Less presence in media with growing reputation in highest quarters. Not a bad deal. And the younger Winchester seemed to finally settle down thinking he and his brother saved the world. Dick probably should have killed him, but didn’t care enough. He’s never been petty.

Well, he managed to choose time to go to the parking facilities. It is pouring. He doesn’t mind. His suit most likely does.

Hmmm, he smells demons… on his territory? Not that Dick has a habit of marking _his_ territory in any way, but there is literally a sign whose property it is. How stupidly bold of them. Not that he has a habit of marking his territory in any way. But he also smells something else in the rain, something that is both similar and very different from unpleasant stench of Hell. It’s familiar, kind of nostalgic, reminding him of…. he isn’t sure yet of what. The feeling is nor good, nor bad, but somewhat wrong, out of place. The mysterious scent is too faint. Probably for the better. But the desire to spill some blood is suddenly overwhelming, it gets stronger than his hunger. His sudden anger is unreasonable. Dick hasn’t felt like this for a long-long time. During the imprisonment in Purgatory his range of emotions has narrowed to rather short specter from annoyance to mild amusement. It calms soon, but it was there.

He walks without haste. Rain taps garages’ metallic roofs loudly and when he reaches his destination it seems like gets too see the most interesting part. Or something like that. Only two women are left struggling using bare hands, clutching each others hair, while other several hell spawn are already destroyed (he isn’t sure how exactly). One is obviously a demon, the other – not so obviously.

“So that’s a definition of a cat fight?” Dick jokes from behind the demon.

Heathen turns and snarls at Dick before realizing that he is more than a match to her. Her claws draw four parallel lines on his neck, but they start closing before the offending hand detaches. Demon steps back in fear and oh, he enjoys that. He smiles baring his teeth.

“An honest mistake, I understand,“ he squeezes her throat before her foul spirit can escape this fragile shell and swallows her like snake swallows a mouse.

The taste is predictably awful. Even worse. Rotten flesh burnt to a cinder. Only positive (though questionably) effect is that his appetite is ruined for quiet some time. Forgetting his manners Dick spits with disgust on wet asphalt. He forgets what brought him here in the first place.

Another woman slides down the dirty wall and hugs her shoulders. Rain washes some blood from her dark hair.

“It’s cold here,” she says like that befalls the current situation. She isn’t afraid of him at all. Either she’s foolishly naïve, either isn’t afraid to die.

“Yes, you are certainly aren’t dressed for the weather,” he might even say she isn’t dressed at all, because her dress is practically destroyed and who knows what color it had originally. It got brown and red from all the blood.

She hasn’t paid any attention to his comment, too busy examining something on her wrist. Then she starts scratching it furiously. Curiously enough she doesn’t stop until she removes a fraction of skin. Dick crunches down and looks closer. There is a mark, which he vaguely recognizes a hell binding seal. So demons were chasing a fugitive.

“Are you a demon?” he leans closer, “You don’t smell like one.”

Woman raises her eyes to his, brown irises under a little burned eyebrows do change into black before she blinks it away.

“Is that a yes?” Dick asks skeptically.

She puts her chin on her knee.

“You are different,” she says absently reaching her hand out. Dick catches it before she touches his face. Her skin is cold. Demons are usually feverishly hot. She also isn’t as ugly as those he has seen. But she’s hardly beautiful. “Did I know you?” she muses, her hand becomes slack in his grip, he feels no resistance.

“It’s possible, but unlikely,” Dick drops her hand and gets up. He doesn’t want to get involved in any infernal business. “You may see yourself out. Now, if you excuse me…”

“What a big mouth you have…” now she looks at him with childish curiosity. “And teeth… you can bite through anything?”

Damn, she’s irritating. As Dick turns around to leave the woman or whatever this thing is suddenly says:

“ _Blessed creature…_ ”

No. Not this again. The words haven’t been spoken in tongue of a human. Words without voice… no, voice without words. She couldn’t be there, could she? Does his mind play tricks on him? He looks at her again and it’s like she said nothing, she is lost somewhere Dick has no access to. He needs this day to end soon, but another thing catches his eye. A glint of angel blade in a hand of one of the demons. Maybe it matters not. This little worn-out thing can’t be an angel. Still, he takes it, lowers himself more or less to her level and moves the weapon before her empty eyes. She actually follows it with her gaze, but with such indifference that it almost makes Dick envy. Experimentally he puts the point to her cheek and cuts lightly. No sign of any grace whatsoever, blood runs lazily, but it steams on her cold skin.

“What are you?” he sticks out his tongue and leaks that fresh crimson streak.

It tastes familiar, not the usual taste of human blood or sulfur filled substance, nor it belongs to any kind of monster and Dick met them all. It is somewhat bitter, somewhat sweet, it is hot, a bit caustic and cutting. Such rare mix and he can’t tell where and when he tried it?

“What’s your name, sweet thing?” he asks with a bit of sarcasm.

Her laughter is small and red.

“I don’t know. Can’t remember what I was doing before…” she furrows her brows.

“Before what?”

“Before I fell asleep. I saw many strange things… what were they?..” her confusion is nearly adorable. Key word is 'nearly'. “Do you have a name?”

“Richard Roman, the one and only. Just Dick is fine,” he introduces himself like usual.

“That’s not your name,” she notes.

“It is now. Besides, it suits me,” he grins and she smiles in return.

“Richard… yes, it does.”

Then Dick Roman does the unthinkable. He offers his hand.


	3. Chapter 3

She follows the man in the suit quietly not paying attention to few people who openly stare as they pass. No, he's not a man, like she is not a woman. She can see him and she wonders how something this big and magnificent fits inside such a small body. She fits in hers only because she made herself small, to pass through those bars, tiny holes and narrow corridors. This human took her in. And she can't remember her name. It is wrong. There was a single moment of clarity but it passed when she hit her head after jumping off the horseback. At least she saved the boy. The boy who grew so old down below. She couldn't leave him there. It felt like she made this mistake before.

The sun is hiding behind clouds and she's cold. But rain is nice. Water is dirty, but still nice. A feel of familiarity is also pleasant, especially in this city which is colder than frozen mountains and almost just as dangerous as the place she recently escaped. And she gets this feeling from Richard. It makes her feel a solid ground under her feet. She won’t be able to fly for some time.

Her head is spinning. Noises. Voices. Words she can't understand, because syllables are broken, stresses are wrong. Names she can't possibly connect with images. Music sequences she can't play, not with her hands this damaged, not with those strings strained to the breaking point. It's cacophony she can’t reorganize into harmony.

Her guide stops to make a short call. A cellphone… Her host’s phone was ringing and ringing and she didn’t want to it pick up. ‘Papa is calling’, she explained to her. And then she said yes and the ringtone mixed into all the rest and didn’t torture her anymore. Somebody was calling for her too when she was down there, but she wanted to answer, she tried until that voice died. Maybe she wanted to because it wasn’t her father calling.

They enter a heavy metal door at the back of the tallest building. Short dark corridor and another metal door. Someone is behind it.

“Sir?” There is a young man. And he is obviously scared. She isn’t sure of whom he’s scared more. “Sir? Is everything okay?”

“Yes,” he looks at the guard’s badge. “You may go, James.”

“Yeah, buddy, go take a break. I got this,” heavy hand lands on guard’s shoulder and he actually yelps. 

Another guard. But not a human. He is a lot like Richard, but… much smaller, despite having considerably bigger body. James nods and leaves, he got red to ears. She smiles for some reason.

“Weird guest you have here, Dick,” the tall guard measures her with an eye.

"Be a gentleman, Dale, give a lady something to cover herself," Richard orders.

"Lady?" this Dale looks at her dubiously.

"Don't even start," warns him Richard and rolls his eyes.

Dale hums and throws her a blue sleeved waistcoat from nearest hanger. She is expected to wear it. So she does, it's too big and doesn't make her warmer, still she bundles up in it.

"We've got three corpses near garages, block B. Sadly, not exactly eatable," Richard adds.

"Demons?" Dale wrinkles his nose. Without waiting for confirmation he comments, "Where do those vermin crawl out from? I'll deal with the bodies, Dick," then grumbles, "and put few warding sigils here and there."

"Please do," then Richard turns back to her and with a nod calls her after him. 

He pushes her into elevator and as the door closes, in this narrow space, she feels her skin crawling. Richard leans to the wall and studies her again, she mirrors his position and stares back. Among all things she’s encountered after her escape he is without doubt the most dangerous. She isn't afraid. She never is but this creature in front of her reminds her that she knew fear once. She knew fervor of the chase and excitement on verge of pure terror or pure joy when prey plays hide-and-seek with its predator. She realizes should he choose to attack now she’ll have no means to protect herself.    

“So, how is Hell doing in this time of year?”

The question isn’t meant to be answered, but she speaks anyway:

“Uneven. Fragile. Eternal,” those are attributes that come to mind first.

“Charming. And why didn’t you stay there?” his words are like thorns, they don’t mean any real harm, but they are not pleasant. “Don’t answer. It doesn’t matter,” he looks at the panel changing number 23 to 24.

She can hear mechanisms clicking, electricity flowing across the building through thin wires like blood in veins.

“It doesn’t matter,” she repeats emptily and then smiles because it really doesn’t. What’s done is done. She is not going back. Unless… has she forgotten something down there?

Low ding and the doors open into sunlit spacious room. Rain is over. Weary clouds finally let the sunlight through. She is confusing colors again. Green, red, orange… black and white. It’s not her thing, she’s not about colors. She reaches her hand towards the light and when she catches a thread Richard forces her hand down.

“Stop fooling around,” he chastises.

The elevator opens again. Another one. She is bigger than Dale. She smells like early autumn.

“There you are, Susan,” Richard greets her. “Got a little task for you. Do something about…” he eloquently points at her with his thumb.

“Oh… wow, Dick. Just wow. What is _that_?” ‘that’ being her, she thinks. She wouldn’t mind knowing herself. So far she doesn’t make sense.

Dick makes a sound deep in his throat and passes to the next room ignoring them both.

“Seriously?!” Susan calls after him incredulously. Then she looks back at her, takes a deep breath and complains: “I’m not getting paid enough for this.”

In small bathroom Susan helps her to undress like she’s a helpless baby. Perhaps it’s not that far from the truth. She did forget how to breathe before something made her scream. She had to crawl before she could stand on two legs and run.

“Well, you are not that scary up close,” Susan concludes allowing a small smile.

“I didn’t mean to frighten you,” she says sincerely. 

“My instincts just panicked for a moment,” Susan shrugs then shows at the hangers, “Towel and robe. Wash, while I get rid of these rags,” Susan takes her clothes and leaves her alone.

She steps under rough sprays of water and it doesn’t take too long. She’ll have to strip of her skin to become clean. Maybe even that won’t be enough. But the soap leaves nothing grey, black or rusty on the surface. She closes taps and the cold creeps up her body.

She looks in the mirror above the sink and the sight is slightly alarming. Aside from bruises of various size and colors the silvery surface shows a bleeding gash right in the middle of her chest going down to the solar plexus. Shutting her eyes, she forces the crack to close, but it’s only a short-term fix. It goes from inside, but it’s not supposed to be harmful, it is a way to get rid of the dirty blood. But she can’t afford the purification, this body won’t endure such extreme measures.

She can leave it and set this poor soul free. She would if she knew where to go. The shreds that vaguely remind wings behind her shoulders feel like a ballast, too heavy to move. But perhaps the case is that it’s she who is too weak to do more than tuck them in and carry around hidden. She turns but the mirror reflects only ugly burn marks covering her back. Yet it’s there, hanging like a dead weight.

She can’t really fix anything. Except one thing. She finds little nail scissors on the sink shelf and starts cutting her wet hair that are definitely beyond saving, burned and torn. She doesn’t need a mirror. In this sense of equability and symmetry her mind finds some peace. The result satisfies the owner of the body. She herself can only say that it’s done smoothly.

Tentatively she snaps her fingers above the pile of hair in the white sink. Nothing happens and it’s confusing. She isn’t sure what she has expected. Not nothing. The ends of her fingers are prickling as if numbness starts passing. She tries again and something pops inside her head. Sharp pain and crimson streak coming from nose. One more time. She makes her ears bleed. One last attempt and tiny sparkle sets the hair on fire filling the air with awful but very familiar stench. And the world goes dark.

 


	4. Chapter 4

“You haven’t answered my question yet, Boss,” Susan corners Dick and Dick doesn’t want to talk about it yet. He simply has nothing to say, there is no way he can describe that gut-wrenching feeling that made him bring that thing along. Oh yes, sure, he can make Susan feel it too, but he’d like to keep it for himself. At least for now.

Susan seems to be put about, judging by uncharacteristically hurried words.

“Talk to me, Dick, calm me down. Because, honestly, I’m freaking out a little here, less because of your unusual guest and more because of you. Last time I saw you like this, we were… it was…” she doesn’t finish, but she doesn’t have to.

“I know.”

“You are disturbed,” she observes him carefully.

“Maybe, a little,” he admits, seeing no point in arguing. “But I assure you, my dear, my disturbance is unfounded,” it has to be.

Susan raises her hands in defeat, showing that she’s annoyed, but trusts him with it.

“I’ll eat her, if she’s naughty,” Dick promises.

“People don’t bring home wet injured miserable kittens just to eat them,” Susan snorts, less tense now.

“We are no people and she is hardly a kitten,” still, the comparison is somewhat fitting, not without charm for sure.

“What is she then, that’s the real…” she is interrupted by a fire alarm, “I’m not going there,” Susan gives him an eloquent look he interprets like _‘Your kitten – you clean its mess’_.

Fair enough. Still, Dick rewards her with a glare before he turns off the alarm and gets going.

The light in the bathroom gone off, and it stinks with burnt hair mingled with scent of blood. Dick steps over the motionless body dropping white rob on it and runs the tap, though there is barely anything more to burn. There is something lurking on the mirror’s edge. Dick runs his knuckles over silvery surface but senses nothing out of place. He hums and knocks on the glass. Trick of shadows. He’s getting paranoid over nothing.  Small wonder, all things considered.

He crouches down and sees streaks of blood across woman’s face. He wonders if she is capable to get through the day without hurting herself. Brown lashes flutter and reveal redness, too many vessels burst. Unlikely she can see anything. But then her eyes once again eclipsed with blackness. This darkness is not demonic. It’s just… empty. And there is nothing Dick hates more than emptiness. She coughs up some blood as she tries to take a breath. Good. At least emptiness is not all there is.

“Are you dying?” he asks curiously if a bit hopefully.

“Dying?” she repeats as if trying to recollect the meaning of the word. “No, I’m not.”

“You sure? Shame,” he sighs dramatically.

“I guess,” she agrees with that stupid smile. “Things would be easier this way.”

 “Indeed,” Dick has a feeling that from now on his life will get even more complicated and it pisses him off.

She sits up and blindly reaches out her hands. Dick notices that the seal she ripped off before is back along with healed skin. He idly wonders how many times she did that.

Curiosity takes over him. Whatever found a shelter in this fragile body has obviously a stronger connection to the flesh than any demon could.  He takes pale hand into his and feels sizzling heat around the mark.

Memories are strange, each has its own flavor, they hide everywhere, in dusty corners of the room or run through your veins with blood. And that kind is particularly… physical, mostly containing the sensible experience, not mental imprints. Memory of a demon he recently devoured shows him very little, mostly the life of a person the body belonged to before they were possessed, in fleeting bits. As for what demon’s eyes could see… it was much less than Dick can see now. And he can tell, that lots of memories is buried within this hellish patterns.

 “You know, I think I can do something about it,” he circles the mark with his thumb. “And it’s gonna hurt like bitch,” he warns or, rather, guarantees.

She looks past him, then at the black mark without seeing it, then back past him and nods:

“Please.”

She decides quick. Well, it seems that she heals fast, although the process is not comfortable in the least.

“Only in suffering do we recognize beauty,” he quotes Proust out of place. There is no beauty in suffering.

 “No, I will not suffer,” she states like it’s an option. Strange words for someone who recently escaped Hell.

“Good for you,” he squeezes her hand harder and whatever dark powers bind her spirit to the Pit, they are gathering around the seal, trying to strengthen it, bracing in fear. That’s going to be one strong meat. He clatters his teeth once and the black knots move in a stew before stilling once again.

“Walls are soundproof. Scream if you must,” he allows and without lingering any longer he puts his mouth around the mark and sinks teeth into soap scented skin and it breaks easily. But the flesh beneath turns to stone refusing to be ripped from the bone. Dick heard that there are chains everywhere in Hell, looks like it’s one of them.

There is only hitched breath as he starts closing his jaws. The progress is slow and the taste is horrible. And it’s hot like melting gold. Demon’s blood is always much warmer than human’s, but it’s beyond that. All he needs to do is rip this damn thing out with its roots. Thousands of tiny sharp hooks are desperately holding to stay in place, but he tears them from bone and flesh one by one, separates them from the essence inside. When he’s done the temptation to spit it out is strong, but he’d better not leave this lump of evil anywhere near. And also, he might learn something. He doesn’t like not knowing. With surprising difficulty, he swallows it down.

The hand in his is shaking, actually the whole arm is shaking up to the shoulder. The wound he left goes to the bone. Must hurt a lot, and she didn’t make a single sound. Dick can’t say if it’s impressive or something entirely else.

She stands up on her own and finally bundles up into the robe painting the sleeve red, but Dick has to lead her, so she won’t run into the nearest wall.

This time Susan doesn’t ask questions, understanding everything with single glance at mutilated wrist, and lets him fall on his chair.

After that he stops paying attention to surroundings. It’s not in his habit, but it’s coming on him too fast and intense.

Dick rubs his temples. Headache’s getting stronger and he doesn’t even try to prepare himself when another’s memory kicks in. Their Dean and Sam told about Hell, or at least about what it was like for the Winchesters. Dick isn’t afraid. No pain can be worse than what he has experienced.

Taste of blood fills his mouth again, this time it’s like he’s about to choke on it, and he grips elbows of his seat as sharp pain pierces his back. Eyes behind closed eyelids are on fire. White noise becomes louder, unbearably so, and Dick would be able to make out words if he wanted to. Skin is frozen, burnt, flayed, he can barely tell the difference. Someone’s cold fingers easily penetrate his chest and twist everything inside, tying hard knots and misplacing parts. The worst of all is that he doesn’t resist. Why? Why, when there is still so much power in him?

Dick snaps back to present as swiftly as he submerged. Watch shows that it’s been nearly an hour.  Felt like a second. Felt like eternity.

Susan is not in the room. But _she_ is. He should to think of a way to call her. Now she almost looks like a decent human being, office dress-code and all. Susan even bothered to put some make-up to hide cuts, bruises and black bags. She stares out in the window with squinty eyes. They are not entirely red now, just pinkish. The wrist where he bit is neatly bandaged. She turns her head and the corner of her mouth twitch, face otherwise blank.

Dick speaks before he can stop himself.

“You didn’t fight it,” it almost sounds like accusation. “You could,” _you had to_.

“No,” she looks at him earnestly and he knows she isn’t lying. And he understands.

“You just didn’t know,” he laughs, his mouth is still tastes like metal. “You dumb, dumb thing.”

She bows her head like a guilty child. Funny. Sad. Stupid.

He gets on his feet and his head echoes with screams and dull ache. He leaves her standing still like statue by the window, with bowed head, deep inside her own darkness.

Susan is busy typing her mails on her computer.

“How was it?” she asks without even trying to fake concern.

“One Hell of a ride,” literally.

“Great. You have a meeting with Mr. Davis in twenty minutes,” she reminds.

Ah, yes, just great. Wonderful. He partly wishes he’d stay in Hell for another hour.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Guys, I know I suck, but I love you.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had to rewrite this chapter countless times, because I had the WIP file damaged. I'm very unhappy with it, but I hope it's not too bad. I'm very grateful to all of you who finds this story worth their time. Really, thank you so much.

She doesn’t get much better. She closes a crack, two more open. But she finds that she can act as if she isn’t falling apart, especially now that the dead weight that kept dragging her down has lessened. Her hand is going to be useless for some time, but it was worth it. The sudden though deceiving lightness is welcome. But one way or another, she’s killing this person she’s taking shelter in. And it’s not just about body anymore, the soul that offered her its warmth now grows colder too. She has to go soon. Find somewhere else.

Home, she remembers the conversation with the one with white wings and sad eyes. He said she had home. Somewhere she could return to if she only didn’t lose her way. But she always gets lost. Even walking down few blocks and having numbers of buildings memorized she finds herself unable to return the same way. More often than not Dale comes to take her back. She doesn’t know why he bothers, but the knowledge that someone’s been looking for her makes her inexplicably happy. But she gets lost not only in space, in time as well. Time doesn’t move like it should. The clock hands move unevenly. Or it’s just her perception that twists it. She is unable to fall into step with the world around. But learns to control it, more or less.

What’s new? She gets an ‘identity’. A set of documents to prove that her name is Alexandra Brown and that she indeed exists as lawful citizen of United States. Which is a lie. But it’s less trouble this way as Susan explained. People’s ignorance should be maintained. She absentmindedly fixes the badge to the black thick fabric of her jacket and prepares to respond to ‘Miss Brown’ for the next eight hours.

Susan has changed the bandage on her wrist and now stares at her as if waiting for her to do something, blow up things or blow up herself. She thinks she’s capable of both but doesn’t try any. Susan smiles and smoothes down her short hair in quick regular gesture.

“Now you’re ready to face the world,” she encourages.

Whatever that means, she just nods and asks how she can help today. She doesn’t like being useless (though there is not much use to her), so Susan always finds her a task, often consisting of working with numbers, because most of times she doesn’t get words and people.

In the evening she wanders off again, searching for something. She’ll know when she finds it. She’ll know. This time Dale joins her, to help her not to get in trouble. She still runs into demons after all and public murder (demons or not) is not acceptable.

Not far away she stops by the wall to look at the sigils hidden in the graffiti seemingly carelessly drawn on the grey wall of the building. It makes some sense to her. But she’s unable to explain. It’s not about signs, but about the meaning and intention, and geometry to make it whole. She trails her fingers down the lines and the signs respond. They hold something in common with her. Dale nudges her to go and she doesn’t dwell on it.

Suddenly she tenses, grabs Dale and quickly hides behind the corner. Dale is amused by her protective behavior.

“What is it? More demons?” he glances around. “I doubt they’ll come near while I’m here. Though, I have no idea why they are not afraid of you.”

No, there are no demons. It’s something else. A presence, heavy, almost crushing, but fleeting. It’s gone within seconds.

“But you’re strong!” Dale rubs his arm. “No, really, why do demons think it’s a good idea to hunt you?”

“They don’t know who I am,” neither does she. “But I have… or had something they wanted,” maybe it was the boy’s soul. They did want it. But she wasn’t left alone after she’s given it. What else did she take?

Of course she gets lost again and is thankful she’s not alone. In the end she doesn’t find anything. She will, eventually. It’s something she must do.

She spents late evenings and nights on the roof. But the night lost its meaning anyway, it’s not dark or empty or quiet. It’s burning with life. Low monotonous sound of sleepless city fills her empty head and runs into her bloodstream.

“Never thought that hanging out with monsters is your thing,” someone appears perched on the curb. “You seem awfully at ease."

"I am," she agrees. She even feels safe, perhaps foolishly so.

The stranger rolls his eyes. She wonders why he’s here. It’s obvious he wants to be anywhere but here.

“Who are you?” once again that feeling is nagging her. ‘ _You know. You should know. You’ve met them before_.’            

“Really? Did Lucifer eat your brains or something?” the name closes around her throat like ice cold fingers. “Actually, don’t tell me. I don’t want to know how you two spent your time down there.”

She tries to understand. But all the words and images disappear in the dark as soon as she reaches for them. She hears a rustle of soft feathers. He has wings too, but they are whole, strong and beautiful, unlike the monstrosity that hangs behind her back.

“What do you want from me?” she wants to cry for some reason. Everything seems so… unfair. “I’ve got nothing else to give. I’ve done everything I could!” her voice strains. She didn’t mean to shout, much less she meant to say any of this. What did she give? What did she do?

He stares, but she can barely feel the weight of his gaze, because it goes through the holes and past her. She doesn’t really see him, too. Only moonlight lets her catch his silhouette in the night.

“What happened to you, Michael?” the question is quiet, serious, angry too. 

Michael, Michael, Michael… Thousands of voices repeat this name inside her head. Some say it like prayer, others as curse. They whisper, they scream, they cry and laugh. They call. She follows one voice, then another, but gets lost again and again among bleeding walls of this endless maze.

What happened to Michael? What could happen? It’s ridiculous.

“Nothing happens to me,” she says swallowing silence and fire and bubbling poisonous chuckle that’s about to escape.

Winged stranger peers into her again, and then his light hits her with its intensity. She squeezes her eyes shut and gasps from pain it provokes. Now she realizes it was his presence she felt earlier today. It’s prodding, intrusive, threatening. She tries to evade the offensive touch, but she fails and one of the stitches she made with great difficulty comes undone so quickly. Then another. And another. Her defense mechanism comes into motion quicker than ever before. She pushes him away from her with full force and he quickly stops.

“Damn it! I didn’t mean to…” he raises his hands in calming gesture. “See, I’m not going to touch you, okay?”

She believes him, she can’t help it. She doesn’t know how not to. And she contains herself.

He sighs and looks away as if in shame or disappointment:

“I guess the world isn’t ending just yet. Pull your birdbrain together, Mike. I’ll drop by again.”

As he vanishes into the night with quiet shiver of feathers, she lowers her heated face into her cold palms. She almost whispered a small pleading ‘stay’. For some reason it hurt seeing him leave like that. But she had no right to stop him.

“Michael,” she mumbles and it sounds dull coming from her lips. Like it’s only a shadow of the real name. And the real one would just tear her narrow ear should she say it out loud.

Not able to bear this crazy chorus her mind succumbs to, she tries to dive into the song of restless city. She dives and swims in it until metal door slams shut behind her. She turns about to see Richard. Strange, he’s been avoiding her last few days. A look of concentration crosses his face for a short moment when he tries to catch the fleeting scent of something familiar.

“Decided to nest here?” he teases. It’s not the first time someone finds her on the roof.

“I’m not a bird,” she replies seriously.

“Snakes make nests too,” he walks closer and sweeps his eyes over the city.

This time she doesn’t say she isn’t a snake either. She doesn’t dislike snakes, but she inhales shortly like she’s been stabbed in the back. Words she once knew cause chain reactions and yet the true meaning avoids her every time. And even when she gets it she forgets where she started.

Richard exhales exasperatedly.

“Come on, get down or I’ll push you from the roof,” he doesn’t seem like he’s joking. 

The thought of falling makes her mildly uncomfortable and, unexpectedly, a little bit excited. But it promises more than just that. A flight. Maybe all she needs is a little push and her shredded wings will open.

“Maybe you should,” it doesn’t sound like a challenge. Just a musing she didn’t mean to say out loud. But she isn’t able to keep her tongue in check.

“Maybe I should,” he agrees and just like that she’s losing her ground. It’s kind of funny how little it took to lose the balance.

But the fall is over before it starts. Richard catches her wrists right when her toes almost slip. Left hand aches viciously and the bandage becomes wet.

They are both silent for some time, just looking at each other, waiting for something to happen. For him to let go, or her to free from his hold. She thinks it’s easier for him to let go than hold on and for her it’s opposite, it’s always hard to let go. She stops breathing when voices in her head start calling Michael and the strongest one sound a lot like Richard. It’s not loud, but very different from others. It’s dry leaves, wet soil, thick fog, hissing flame and bubbling blood, all of it and neither.

Finally, Richard pulls her back and she stumbles from the edging, her fingers dig into his sleeve as she tries to stay on her feet.

She acutely feels him near. So huge, heavy and overwhelming. Like the ocean. Its depths are closing around her and she is drowning in thick black waters. Is it better than falling? Is it the same? She can’t compare.

She unclenches her hand with ill-grace, but can’t find will to look up at Richard. Some kind of ancient deep-rooted guilt stirs bellow her heart but it holds no remorse. Richard takes her chin between his fingers and forces to look at him. He doesn’t seem angry but he obviously isn’t happy with her.

“Don’t test me,” he warns, letting her know he’s not going to play this game next time.

Next time… Maybe next time she will be ready.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ...surprise-surprise, I'm alive...

It’s Susan who makes him find her first. Not that they actively avoided each other after what happened on the roof, not that they looked for each other’s company. ‘She’… she’s still just that to him. An impersonal pronounce. She has some name on a badge now, but Dick doesn’t remember what it was. It wasn’t anything suitable for sure.

Anyway, Susan said there were some power failures, more than it’s supposed in a place which usually works like swiss clock. A problem for electricians to solve, but guess where they all happened. Near that tiny closet of an office where she makes better friends with endless folders rather than people.

Dick finds her leaning to the window, hugging her shoulders as if she’s cold, and staring at something on the desk. A lollipop in glittering wrapper, it lies near the keyboard. That must be the object of her intent observation.

“Richard,” she greets him and eases her stance.

“Is this candy so fascinating?” he asks. “Or suspicious?”

She doesn’t tear her eyes from it, being her usual expressionless self.

“It’s a gift. From a… friend? He said it’s good for brains.”

“I doubt sugar will help in your case,” he comments dryly and can’t help noticing, “You didn’t sound sure when you said ‘friend’.”

“He doesn’t like me.” But gave her a candy. How sweet. “And he said that you are a monster and I shouldn’t be here.” She adds that so casually. What an interesting friend though.

“It’s true and you already knew it,” Dick says.

She finally looks at him and her eyes are awfully big and honest. Whatever Dick expected her to say wasn’t what she eventually said.

“I’ve always loved monsters.”

Should it been said by any other, in any other tone, Dick would die laughing. It doesn’t sound like a joke, delusion or indulgence. It’s not naïve. It’s just so… her. Resignation. And condemnation. Punishing, blinding indiscriminate forgiveness. Dick suddenly finds himself wishing to rip her head off, for the first time in eternity feeling something akin to fear stirring in depths of his memory. ‘Love’ is always bad news.

“Monsters bite,” he reminds her. “Every single one of them. And you what, want to caress them?” it’s supposed to be a mockery. For his own peace of mind.

“I shared the cage with a monster. I loved him very much,” she stares at her hands and Dick knows exactly what she sees. Blood.

The memory he swallowed resurfaces and hits him mercilessly and he isn’t sorry to say:

“Then you’re well aware that he didn’t love you back,” there was only pain between her and her cellmate, so much needless pain, that she could have avoided if she didn’t love monsters, if she couldn’t afford loving them.  

She runs her fingers down the cold window glass, tangling pale sunrays in her palm, desperate for light that can’t reach into her cold darkness.

“I failed him,” she says instead of denying or confirming.

“Or, he made you believe you did,” they, monsters, can be very convincing. It’s easy, when everyone is a victim and everyone is to blame, when innocence is but a lie.

She heard him, but her words are always out of place.

“I failed you too,” her voice sounds strange, too quiet and too loud at the same time, both deep and high-pitched, words are spoken in old language and hold no remorse. Much like in their first meeting in the heavy rain.  

Whatever makes her think that. Whatever makes him want to hurt her so much. Just, whatever. He closes his eyes and feels her thin fingers briefly touching his, leaving tiny burning shreds of sun on his skin.

“You make me sick,” he says quietly without reproach, without opening his eyes. It comes out choked and it would be humiliating were anyone else here. He doesn’t like that his pride and arrogance just stop matter whenever she’s near, but he hasn’t yet found a way to deal with it. 

Rhythmical heels clicking in the corridor makes him snap out of it and take a step back.

“Alex, dear, could you have a look… Mr. Roman!” a woman in age froze in a doorway with thick folder under her arm. No doubt, ‘Ms. Brown’ and her surprisingly quick when it comes to numbers mind are in need.

The interruption is very much welcome. Dick smiles pleasantly:

“Mrs. Flynn,” she obviously surprised the CEO knows her by name. “Don’t worry, I was about to leave,” well he might have already given her more grey hair. “Have a good day, ladies.”

Mrs. Flynn hurries to free the doorway and Dick doesn’t spare her a second glance. The door closes behind him and between rustle of paper he catches worried whisper: “You’re not in trouble, are you?” Oh, damn right she is. Not because of him, just by definition.

He enters empty elevator and when light winks he remembers he hasn’t told her to behave, with that silly conversation about monsters.

Monsters…  he suddenly realizes he can hear a werewolf’s howl. Flap of dragon’s wings. Screech of claws against wood. Dirt squelching under big paws. _Home sweet home_ , he thinks despite himself. Purgatory. Thirst, hunger. Blood demanding more blood. And only one language common for everyone here – violence.

How he loathes this place. If only he could…  But wait, he did. He did get out of here. He couldn’t have imagined that. And he didn’t go back. So, what is real? Pain where a beast’s fangs sink into him is real. It is. But it’s also wrong. It should hurt differently.

Dick recognizes an illusion. It dissipates completely, but the illusionary bite still hurts.  Its creator seems to have mastered this art nearly perfectly. Nearly enough to fool him. Nearly, but not enough.

“Nice trick,” he acknowledges as short moment of confusion passes and names the angel he now can see in front of him, “Gabriel.”

Interesting. To Castiel’s knowledge this particular archangel was dead. Looks pretty much alive to Dick. And very pissed.

“So, you know me,” Gabriel’s stance seems rather relaxed, but his grace is carefully gathered around him.

“Second-handedly,” Dick admits and bares his teeth a little. “What do I owe the pleasure?”

“Michael,” Gabriel grits out.

Michael? Dick doesn’t show he has no idea what it’s all about and calmly repeats:

“Michael, you say…”

He scans Castiel’s memory again. Michael. Another archangel. Prince of Heaven. Reserved warrior. Ruthless. Fearsome. It hardly connects with an image of that lost broken thing he found in the rain, which has to be that Michael, for the lack of other options. So, she was an angel after all. She looked closer to Hell that day. She still does.

_I shared the cage with a monster. I loved him very much._

Lucifer was that monster.  

But it’s not the only thing that makes sense now. Dick’s own knowledge resurfaces from eons of dust, blood and heavy rain of Purgatory.

Michael. Of course. Who else could tear sun in their hands like it’s nothing? She, or he, or it, didn’t have any name back then. The world was blissfully mute and wordless. And then this little ugly angel sang a song and ruined everything.

Dick isn’t surprised at all, somewhere beneath the shields of his flesh he knew it. Knew her. They are familiar with each other so intimately as wound and knife, as poison and bloodstream.

_I’ve always loved monsters._

His worst nightmare. Or it would be if made a habit out of dreaming, which he luckily didn’t. It was… defeating. And the taste of defeat, while sobering, is way too bitter.

_I failed you too._

‘Failed’, the word is too strong and too weak to describe anything. They failed themselves, they both lost. It’s just that one of them managed to escape the prison. Only to get stuck in another much worse. Yes, she escaped that too, but the price was dire. How soon the wounded bird will land into a cage again?

“Oh yes, Michael,” Dick says again and laughs.

It visibly unnerves mighty Gabriel.

“What are you playing at?! What do you hope to get from him?”

Interesting question. Dick brought her along out of mere curiosity. It’s not that he particularly likes having her around, but he got used to her presence. Any actual purpose? No. One day she’d go on one of her quest walks and wouldn’t come back. That’s it.

And now, knowing that he gave a shelter to the archangel, his mortal enemy who is also in rather helpless state?

“Really, what can I possibly get?” Dick says sarcastically. “Use your imagination, angel. Maybe I want to get your pretty little kingdom above? Maybe I just want to settle score with our common creator by turning his champion against him? Or…” he pauses and his next words don’t sound like a joke at all. “Or maybe it’s personal and all I want is to fill your brother’s veins with thick blackness and slowly torment him, eat him from inside, piece by piece, nest in his head and live there until he goes crazy, until I get bored and finally have a mercy to kill him. Now, how about that?” he finishes coldly, surprised how much he means it. But what a delight to see Gabriel’s eyes widen in horror and his pretty feathers standing up a little.

“Don’t you dare,” he says quietly, subdued, but anger is evident in all his being.

“No?” Dick wonders how much more pressure he can build up before the archangel bursts. “What if I do? You know, it’s been a long time but, as I recall, he tasted pretty good,” even though had a habit to get stuck in his throat.   

“You…” Gabriel takes a deep breath.

Then, before he can start his no doubt passionate tirade, Dick sighs instantly killing all the murderous tension and cuts him off.

“I _don’t_ care for your broken brother.” Michael probably was made broken, he thinks with only a grain of pity. “Go ahead and take him if you are able to carry that much of nothing. And a fair warning, angel, don’t show yourself near me again,” he doesn’t have to tell him what else.

Gabriel stares at him, too long, prying gaze tries to break through his defenses to no avail. Dick is not going to show him anything, especially not the scars Michael left him with.

He does disappear eventually and Dick half-expects him to reappear behind his back with a drawn sword. But no, Dick is alone in spacious elevator. And it seems, judging by sudden blackout, that he’s stuck here. Stupid angels.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate everything about this... Can't promise another chapter, even though it's almost done. This 'almost' just kills me. I hate the way I stall at the smallest things. I should stop writing, because I obviously don't know how write.


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *hiding in the darkest corner* you people are too precious and I don't deserve you

“Did you know that Adam’s Milligan soul entered heaven about two weeks ago?”

He doesn’t find a reason to give a verbal reply to an obviously rhetorical question. He merely prompts his uninvited guest to keep talking.

“May I ask how it came to be?”

For a moment Death wondered if he should have kept Adam. He could probably offer him a reaper position. Not a job for a human soul, but it would be wrong to say that Adam was completely human after his particular experience. Heaven and Hell molded him into something different. It’s only by luck and Michael’s effort that he didn’t become an archdemon, like Lilith and few others. So yes, he could ‘adopt’ the boy. Still, Adam has deserved his little Paradise. It’s just that now there is an angel in front of Death asking him silly questions, which he doesn’t want to answer. And, really, doesn’t have to. But paranoid angels have tendency to be more than just annoying. At least this one is respectful.

“Niall found him by pure accident. Why don’t you ask the boy himself, how he ended up on earth again?”

The young seraph doesn’t look pleased. She isn’t testing him. She hasn’t learned yet that Michael is here somewhere. Something is going on beyond her watchful eyes and she doesn’t like it.

“He is not very talkative.” Oh, Death imagines he isn’t. And Adam is most likely immune to all the mind tricks after Hell. “I hope you understand, I’m only worried. Is Lucifer’s cage still holding?”

Yes, that’s the big question. Michael did quite a fit escaping it with a soul in tow. But Lucifer won’t follow any time soon. Niall didn’t tell Naomi, who without doubt questioned him intently, about who passed them this soul. Not that he knew. Or maybe he did. Anyway, Niall knows to mind his own business.

“Cage is closed and sturdy as ever, I can assure you. I think you and I would know if the Devil suddenly ran free.”

She takes a breath she doesn’t really need before locking her eyes on him with nearly impudent resolve. Death feels a corner of his lips quirk in amusement.

“Was it you? You freed Sam Winchester after all.”

Is it accusation? His mouth stretches further into a smile.

“And?” he asks.

“And maybe you decided to have mercy on his brother as well?”

Mercy? What a delusion. She wants to hear him say ‘yes, I did it’, and stop torturing her pretty head counting less pleasant possibilities. But it would be a lie. And Death is honest, if anything.

“I know no mercy, child,” he says coldly, smile still on his face, and she knows the conversation is over. A stiff formal bow and she leaves. Angels. None of them since Lucifer could just accept things as they are.

He remembers that day when he decided to indulge another arrogant Winchester. He offered to save Adam instead and wasn’t surprised that Dean chose Sam. After all Sam deserved his fate, he chose it aware of the consequences. But the eldest brother couldn’t care less. Love over justice is normal for mortals.

Tessa was scandalized about this agreement. Her father, descending to Hell, into the dragon’s den at a human’s whim. But no, it was his own whim. Why did he want to enter that ancient prison? He knew he wouldn’t like to see what was happening inside. And he didn’t. This place seemed to draw pain from all the corners of Hell and shared it between its prisoners. Even Adam under Michael’s protection suffered just a little less than Sam under Lucifer’s cruel attention. It was more physical for Sam, more perceptible, for other three it just was there, not cutting or piercing them, but weighing them down, suffocating slowly. Death is a constant witness of pain, but he doesn’t understand it, doesn’t know it as intimately as his brothers do. And yet the Cage made his senseless skin crawl.

Adam and Sam were blinded with cold darkness. Lucifer didn’t see him. Michael didn’t look, and Death was glad he didn’t, thankful that angel ignored him all four times he accidentally brushed against his bleeding wings. He took what he came for and then he left. Shivering soul didn’t even notice it wasn’t in Hell anymore. And Death didn’t think about what would happen behind those dreadful walls after Lucifer lost his favorite toy.

Well, probably it’s only a matter of time until Sam or Dean land themselves in Hell again. It’s just ridiculous.

Death starts his car, and the engine sounds a bit different. Louder. Impatient. His steed wants to rush somewhere.

“What is it, girl?” he barely stops her at traffic light.  Gentle but uneven rumble is his answer.

Soon he learns the reason as a car moves across almost colliding with them and turns left. He recognizes it instantly despite the change. The engine roars and he enters the chase. Famine seems lighter than ever. The small black car is not exceptionally fast, but maneuverable, easily taking turns and changing directions. _‘Catch me_ ,’ it seems to tease and Death can’t help following. He quickly loses everything from his sight but the black spot in a distance. Like he always does when he tries to catch up with his brothers, not bothering for anyone caught in his way.  His brother leads him in circles, keeps him close but out of reach. What does he want? Why has he willingly sought Death?

Death can’t say for sure, but they caused at least six accidents on the road, until they finally stop. Famine is already waiting sitting on the hood of black Peugeot. Death parks his Cadillac very close and doesn’t take off the key, letting his companion speak to her black friend. Death lets himself out and stands at arm length from Famine. Closer and they will inevitably fight.

Famine doesn’t meet his eyes, refuses even a single glance at him. It hurts but it is the way it is.

“You look small,” Death speaks first. Far too small, and yet the emptiness inside is infinite. Black rider, creature of contrast, weak and frail, and yet overpowering everything that struggles to live.

“I’m faster this way,” thin shoulders shrug.

That much Death has noticed. Then he notices other things, like nervous fingers turning the black ring, like fair hair in a careless braid, skinny jeans and baggy sweater that does nothing to hide the stack of bones under. Famine looks like a teenage girl with an obvious eating disorder of all things. In many ways it’s sadder than a dying looking old man, and just a little bit better than a starving child.

“Look at them,” Famine suddenly shows somewhere across the wide busy street.

So Death does. He sees Michael first, of course. Grace coiled impossibly tightly inside the same breaking vessel, shredded wings folded guardedly. But she shines, actually shines inside a giant dark shadow, that seems to cover her but cannot swallow. Then he shifts his eyes to find the owner of that shadow.

Well. Death needs to stop wondering how the hell Michael manages to stay alive. As if having read his mind his brother chuckles.

“Aren’t they just precious?”

Depends on which part of the picture he needs to concentrate. An wounded archangel facing the great leviathan or a barefoot the woman holding a shoe with broken heel and smiling at the man, who looks like he’s doing his best not to laugh. The first belongs to ancient nightmares of the creation, the second – to a lighthearted clichéd romantic comedy, and somehow one isn’t there without the other.

“Precious,” Death repeats distractedly. What is this game Famine is trying to challenge him into? Last time the Black Horseman played with these particular pieces, he did it with War and the result was devastating. Nobody won, everybody lost and God decided to build a new world instead of trying to save the old one. Death had no place there, saw glimpses from afar, heard only echoes of that struggle. But now they live in a world of fragile things, where Death can claim almost everything there is, should he want to.

“Yes, precious. So confused with themselves and each other, not yet realizing how starved they are,” Famine’s whisper rings with genuine excitement and anticipation.

Starvation. For what? It’s fairly easy to guess with the leviathans. But Michael? Death doesn’t even want to know. There is a disaster waiting to happen right there, in front of his eyes. How? What king of strings has Fate weaved to pull them together? What stopped the stronger from destroying the weaker at once? Death suddenly finds himself curious in a way he doesn’t like.

“So, what do you say?”

What can he say? Even he refuses, he won’t have a choice in the end. Or is Famine expecting a judgement?

“You never listen to me anyway,” Death eyed the graying sky trapped between the skyscrapers.

“I always listen to you. I just don’t do what you tell me.”

Death rolls his eyes at that in a bitter kind of fondness.

“Of course,” he drawls and hears a giggle. “Won’t you even look at me?”

It’s cruel of him to ask that. And yet he does, because cruelty is the only thing he can give and the only thing Famine will accept from him without questions. Indeed, from where he stands he can see pale lips revealing a pained smile.

“If I do it now, I doubt I’ll find the will to look away.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, some Horsemen games and angst before we return to Michael trying to figure out pretty much everything... And I wonder if I should actually make Adam a reaper and involve him more. I mean poor guy doesn't ever get enough of action.  
> I kinda wanted to drop writing altogether. Life happens, I have some chance to make a sports career and stuff, but I actually like this story and I absolutely love all of your precious comments. Thank you for your support, it means the world.


	8. Chapter 8

Noise. It’s quieter now, but it’s losing any pattern, becoming less constructed and therefore much less bearable. She is grateful when Gabriel’s voice breaks through it, returning some harmony into her world.

“They eat people,” he mentions as if she could forget.

Gabriel is drinking his milkshake while she stares at the coffee cup signed with the name ‘Mike’. They are sitting in a corner in a crowded café. She counts the crumbs left on table.

“They do,” like many other creatures. She’s not going to argue that, excuse or approve. As far as she knows it’s not always a murder, they infiltrated human society deep enough to get access to morgues and hospitals. It’s not ethics, of course, but practicality without raising suspicion. Adaptation, survival. If anything, she’s surprised they can be so civil.

“It doesn’t bother you at all?” Gabriel raises his brow. “Fine, not my place to judge after all my time with pagans. But, one day that dick might decide that you’re a better meal, what then?”

Barely healed left wrist aches in reminder of those scary sharp teeth. Richard is able to destroy her, she has no doubt about it, but he hasn’t so far, even though she can swear sometimes he wants to.

“I don’t think I’m to his tastes,” she smiles at Gabriel reassuringly and takes a sip of her latte. It has barely any flavor. Her tongue is losing sensibility.

Gabriel grumbles something under his nose and she can’t make out the words. She can imagine it’s nothing overly flattering. Then he drinks his milkshake pointedly loudly making her chuckle. But he doesn’t seem to have so much fun.

“You look like shit, Mikey,” Gabriel finally says. “You need a new vessel.”

Smile slips from her lips. She knows that too. But how can she?

“What if I break them too?” More and more she’s convinced she can’t be trusted with something as fragile as human body and something as precious as human soul.

“Then you find another,” he replies. “You don’t get to be picky. Try till you find the one that would help your recovery, not stall it.”

“I don’t know if I can do that.”

Gabriel sighs exaggeratedly loudly.

“Of course, you don’t know. I do, though. Look, I’d help you to go home, but after all that clusterfuck that occurred, I can’t be sure our dear family won’t try to lynch you on the spot. I doubt they’ll manage, but I’d rather not tempt fate.”

Home, family… Gabriel is family, she thinks.  And so was her inmate. He knew her so well, knew where it would hurt the most, knew how to crush all her defenses. His knowledge lied deep, torture was nearly intimate, and the worst part is that she almost misses it. And Richard got it right – she didn’t fight.

“I left him there all alone,” she says suddenly. She doesn’t know why. Yet, she knows that Gabriel should hear it. “Do you… do you think I shouldn’t have?”

Gabriel stares at her. Has she said something stupid again? He shakes his head once, his eyes are stern, but conflicted. She loves his eyes.

“No, Michael, I don’t think that. I would never wish you that. I…” he stumbles.  “Why would you even say something like this?”

“He didn’t want to let me go,” she remembers.

His grasp was strong. He tore a part from her and she let him keep it, even helped him with it. She wouldn’t have been able to get through the bars otherwise. But only now she realizes how wrong it is to say that she is free, when so much of her is still there and probably is going to stay forever. She can only wonder when this duality will inevitably hit her right in the face. The tremor in her hands grow uncontrollable, her nerves aflame, but she feels cold. She puts paper cup down to not spill the hot liquid. She misses the moment when Gabriel reaches out and holds her wrists, but she can’t possibly miss the energy that fills her wounds. It’s somewhat aggressive, but healing all the same. She finally feels solid ground under her feet, not thick bloody dirt that threatened to swallow her.

“You are here. You are, you, crazy son of a bitch,” he laughs bitterly and lets her hands drop on the table. “Never ceased to amaze me, would it be your strength or utter stupidity. All in all, I’m glad I didn’t take much after you,” the tone is half-teasing, half-sincere.

She laughs, it hurts but she laughs.

“I’m here, I’m here,” she repeats like those are magic words. And they are because they are louder than demons’ cursing, than bones breaking. “Gabriel?”

“Hmm?”

She wants to ask a lot of things: about their home and family, about Gabriel and pagans, about many-many things she doesn’t know or doesn’t get. But it’s for another time. For now there is something else she wants to say, just because, before her tongue numbs completely or she forgets.

“I love you.”

He seems lost for a moment, not shocked, just lost, but then he breaks into a wide grin.

“I know. I love me, too.”

After Gabriel disappears she stares at the spot where he’s just been. She wonders what is it that she feels. Loss? Abandonment? Loneliness? Betrayal? Whatever it was once, now it’s only a nameless echo, reaching through her empty head. But she’s wasting time again, slipping through it without noticing.

She’s about to leave too when someone occupies the seat across. Shy in colors. A small man, but bigger than he seems. He sets down his cup, opens his laptop with a weird expression.

When the man raises his eyes at her he jumps and spills some of his coffee, then panics even more and begins wiping the keyboard of his laptop with napkins. She’s supposed to say she’s sorry, she thinks. Is it her fault? She didn’t do anything. She stays silent and finishes her already cold drink. The man finally sits down and she can feel him staring.

“Can you see me?” she asks.

Why else would he be so afraid? He stares more and asks in return:

“Can _you_ see me?”

Only barely. She can’t even tell if he’s just a weird human or a being of some other kind.

“Not really,” the whole world around is blurred.

The reply puts him at ease and he chuckles nervously:

“Oh, I… sorry, I’ll just get back to my writing,” he turns his attention to the screen.

“Are you writing a story?” she can’t help her probably rude curiosity.

“Well… yes. I’m… I’m a writer, so that’s… what I do,” he keeps fidgeting in his sit and doesn’t look at her.

“Is it a good story?”

It’s obviously not a question he’s expected to get. But it’s the only that matters, isn’t it?

“It’s uh… okay,” he says awkwardly.

‘Okay’. This word has a strange comforting shade of grey and neutral taste. Very impersonal, very simplistic. Very much lacking confidence. She’s heard it too many times since she crawled out from the pits.

“Okay,” she repeats and listens to rhythmical clicks. Words forming phrases, sentences piling up into inky canvas, a mind behind it all, an idea. She follows the sound, the thread of typed words, seeing them without looking.

“In this story you are dead,” she says quietly and busy fingers freeze over the keyboard. Blue eyes darken, no more awkwardness or fear, but something that tells her to shut up, to look down and bow her head or even kneel. And that would be easy, wouldn’t it? But it’s just as easy to simply stare back.

He looks away first and returns to typing, muttering:

“In this story you’d wish you were dead too…”

Her hand crumples the cup in a protest. She’d better go before she says anything else. Susan says she’s too blunt and that annoys people, but it’s not a big problem because she doesn’t talk much.

“Goodbye,” her voice is almost a whisper.

She walks and thinks she doesn’t really like this word. _Goodbye_. Maybe because she isn’t always sure what it means. _Goodbye, I’ll see you again. Goodbye, I don’t know if I’ll see you again. Goodbye, I wish I’ll never see you again. Goodbye, I’ll never see you again._ Maybe because she hasn’t heard it enough. Gabriel never says it, lately he just disappears without warning and she… well, it doesn’t matter what she thinks.

She walks trying to mind her route this time. It’s not that hard, right? She is irritated at herself, at the situation she stuck herself in, at her birdbrains as Gabriel put it, at Gabriel for not being here, at Richard for not trying to eat her. Silly grudges, even so, they are enough to shake up her usual passiveness.

She’s losing her senses, but the stench of sulfur is too strong to miss. She can turn around and walk another way. But she never runs from the fight. And this time she actually itches for it. So when a woman shows her to follow to the door with a sign ‘Closed’, she nods and goes with her.

They wait for her. There are more of them this time. Seven. Six pairs of black eyes, a pair of red. And one more pair of black — her own.

Dim light of the dying day comes through white paper on the windows and allows her to see the signs drawn on nearly every surface. Those lines latch on her in attempt to drain her, thirsting for blood and pain.   

“Here I am,” she breaks heavy silence. “What now?” as if she has to ask.

Red eyed demon’s lips move and the circle she’s standing in flares up. And she feels like being hit with a ninetail whip.

The first demon is burned and her nerves scream at the strain, so she doesn’t attempt that for the second time. She breaks one of the sigils and two more are sucked back into Hell, the bodies they wore lie limp on the floor. Now their count is down to that she’s used to deal with. Also this place, no matter how much it’s made to resemble Hell, isn’t half as bad, and she went through it never stopping.

Finally, there is only one. Her body is damaged, but the wounds don’t bleed.

Red eyed demon begins whispering another spell, her whole vessel is paralyzed with pain for a moment, but she doesn’t allow him to finish. Her hand is covered with red web as it sinks into defenseless chest of her enemy. The heart isn’t beating but it burns. 

“What do you want?” she demands. Demon writhes desperately against the wall, hissing angrily. “What makes you keep coming after me?” her voice starts falling apart into different frequencies, making demon’s ears bleed.

She could tear this dead heart out. Dead… How can it be dead, when she can feel so clearly how much she’s hurting this miserable creature? Demons are always in pain, whatever form it takes. And somehow, she is making it worse. She doesn’t want to be cruel, she never means to be cruel. But she has to… no! She lets the demon go and makes few quick steps back.

“Go away,” she warns him, not caring for his reasons or purpose anymore. He’s learned that she’s stronger, so why doesn’t he run?    

Bright red eyes focus on her with hatred and fear. But then they change into a different color, the one she can’t properly distinguish.

“I know what you need,” the words sound. Demon’s voice is suddenly soft and inviting. It doesn’t feel right.

“No! Go away!” she tries again.

“I’m just trying to help you, Michael. Seeing that no one else would,” he laughs not unkindly, his voice hypnotizing, and steps forward.

He knows that name, too. He is not the one she pinned to the wall, but someone else. But she can’t ask, she can’t move. She just spaces out, the flow of time evades her and it’s too late when she plunges in it again.

She stares at her right hand in confusion. It takes her several moments to realize what’s wrong. Two fingers are missing. Strange taste in her mouth. There is a taste and it’s strange itself. She wipes her mouth with the damaged hand. It’s wet. She already knows. She is looking at the demon’s vessel near her feet in a dark red puddle with the ripped throat and she knows. Salt, iron, fire, pain on her tongue, in her stomach, making its way to her heart and everywhere else from there. She realizes that this is not the first time she’s done it. She just pushed the memory of such dreadful deed away. She wouldn’t be surprised if she forgot something else just as big as this, left it in the crimson frozen rivers and infernal pits, where her wildest instincts took over. And this impossibly hot and dirty blood is the only thing that keeps her vessel together at this point. This is why she always feel so dirty. The corruption runs deep through her being, cold, vicious, unrepentant.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dum-dum-dum! I don't know if it was that dramatic, but Michael is in trouble. Well, when isn't he in my stories? Also, there, there was Chuck, but I think it was pretty obvious... they had a tense interaction, didn't they?


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